


the promise of monsters

by green_postit



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brad saw the commercial with the dragon and the knight and the hideous graphics, he knew that the Marines had to be the toughest motherfuckers alive if they could have a commercial that homosexual and not have any other branch of the military fuck them up like that smelly kid at recess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

When Brad saw the commercial with the dragon and the knight and the hideous graphics, he knew that the Marines had to be the toughest motherfuckers alive if they could have a commercial that homosexual and not have any other branch of the military fuck them up like that smelly kid at recess. 

He signs the papers the next morning.

\--

Godfather personally meets with him when he touches down at Matilda.

It's an honor, and Brad knows that Godfather isn't there to suck his cock for the valiance he showed in Afghanistan. Godfather wants something—wants Brad for something—and Brad knows that there's a good chance it's going to get him killed.

 _Hoorah_. 

Godfather tells him he's been selected to be a team leader in Bravo Company and that he can put together his own recon team. Godfather passes him folders with soldier names printed on the side. Poke's at the top of the pile. 

Poke was a fellow warrior, one of the good Marines he'd served with. Brad remembers the way Poke kept his cool under fire, how he had his six in the most chaotic of situations. Brad'd seen a lot of Marines crack under less. 

He asks about getting Poke in as a team leader. Godfather pauses. His eyes are hard like marbles; he conquered throat cancer and is still in the shit, lighting Hajis up like a Christmas tree. 

"Godfather will consider your request, Sergeant." 

Brad nods, thumbs through the files in his hand while Godfather tells him he'll be working under Captain Schwetje and Lieutenant Fick. 

Brad'd never met either, only knows their reputations. Schwetji's supposed to be some inbred piece of _I Am Sam_ shit with an IQ that'd make Forrest Gump look like Stephen Hawkings. 

Fick, on the other hand…well, all that Brad'd gathered on him was Wynn was in charge of breaking him in, and the boys from H&S couldn't stop going on about a mouth that'd make a Taiwanese whore blush.

\--

Brad picks Ray Person first.

Ray was there in Afghanistan, has a commendation list as long as Brad's dick and has test scores that almost make Brad envious. He's a wiry little asshole with a quick mouth, a sharp tongue, and a stubborn clench to his jaw. He's a whisky tango hick, but he's a genius and Brad wants a brain like that at his nine.

Trombley's the baby Marine, fresh out of training and Brad recognizes the warrior spirit in his eyes, wide and cold and eager. He'd make one hell of a Marine the second his balls dropped and he figured out what to do with his dick.

"Yo, Iceman!" Brad lifts his head. It's Poke. "Isn't this shit unreal? Fucking team captains." 

Brad smiles. 

"You got your boys yet?"

Brad flashes him another smile. "Daddy's got himself a good little batch of miscreants to play with."

"I got me some of the lesser fuckups, too," Poke laughs. 

"Glad to hear that, gents."

They both turn.

It takes a second for Brad to process the sight before him, but then his eyes zero in on the mouth and he knows he's in trouble already, and he hasn't even fired a single shot.

\--

Nate Fick's a junior officer, twenty-five but looks like he still gets carded at bars. He's from money, graduated nice and proper from an Ivy League, joined the Marines for a challenge.

He's got this pretty mouth and these wide green eyes that read like a high school girl's diary. His eyes give everything away, too earnest and well-doing. He's got morals and ideals and reeks of optimism. 

By all means, he should be some silver-spooned, frat boy POG, but Brad's seen him out in the field, sweating and grunting along with everyone else, seen him guide the gunners and instruct the RTOs and coach the team leaders. He's got a brain and his commands are firm and final. Brad throws his support behind him with pride.

He'd gladly walk into a gunfight with a knife, just as long as Nate Fick was there, leading him out. 

Bravo Company feels the same way. They see Charlie Company get Captain America and laugh all the way to chow.

\--

There's a sandstorm that kicks up in the middle of the night. The tent collapses like a sandcastle and Marines spew out with sledgehammers and scarves wrapped round their faces.

Brad stretches, cracks his knees and gets up. He's in no rush. He sees Poke and Rudy shake their heads, laugh as Marines scramble to bolt down the flaps. 

All in all, it takes about seven minutes to secure the tent. Brad walks back inside, swipes his tongue over his teeth. He can feel the sand in his mouth, on the back of his tongue, in his nose. 

"Excellent job, gents." Nate praises while he brushes the sand out of his hair. He's standing there before them standard issue black boxers, hardcover, and Brad'd be damned if everyone in the platoon wasn't staring at his ass like a pack of bloodhounds sniffing out a wounded animal.

Rudy whistles, soft and low, makes this little sound that's one-hundred percent pure jealousy, and when Fruity fucking Rudy's jealous of someone, you know you're got yourself one fine piece of ass.

\--

When they get the Humvees, everyone laughs.

"This is a joke, right? Command's gotta be screwing with us." Ray's looking at the junkyard reject hoopties like he'd been told they were supposed to be Porches. 

Nate's face is wire tight. "Unfortunately, gentlemen, this is no joke. We're to carry out our orders in…these." 

Poke's still laughing. "C'mon, LT. You're tellin' us we're supposed to invade and secure a hostile county in soup cans?"

Nate looks at Wynn. The fury in his eyes makes the green dark as clovers. Brad can see the way the arguments formed on Nate's lips, how his jaw must have worked when addressing Encino Man and Godfather, how the indignation and absurdity of it all must have felt when it left his tongue. 

Everything about Nate's body right now tells Brad he fought against this as hard as he could. If Brad hadn't been believed in Nate Fick by now, this would have done it. 

"We're Marines, Sergeant Espera," Nate sighs. "We make do."

\--

Nate's got a runner's body, can sprint a fifteen k like it's nothing. Brad's seen him do it, almost two hundred pounds of weapons, rocks and sandbags on his back, out stripping every Marine, like they're the fat kids running after the ice cream truck.

He's got great legs, long and pale and his calves freckle when sunburned. He should have gone the Olympic route; brought home the gold, the pride, and a Wheeties endorsement that'd set him up for the rest of his life.

Instead, he's in the shit with a certified retard as his CO, and Brad'd feel a whole lot calmer if Nate was in his Humvee with his body and eight inches of steel between Haji bullets and Nate's freckled legs. 

Brad's done enough recon on Nate's ass to tell you he's got a hundred and thirty six freckles all together.

\--

He and Ray fork over close to six hundred of their hard earned cash to pimp out their broken-down, grade A, P.O.S Humvee. Brad hooks up the GPS and wires everything to his laptop while Poke slides under and starts hammering shit to other shit and hopes it sticks well enough to get them through their tour without falling apart like a bad Marx Brother's skit.

Ray comes back, slams a crate of metal parts on the hood. Everything rattles around and the crate leaves dents that Brad can see from the front seat.

"I'm fucking serious, man. Even Wile E. Coyote got all his mallets and anvils and slingshots delivered to him on time for the Road Runner to fuck his shit up, and here we are still waiting on an Amazon purchase to invade a fucking country. Shit, if we only had an ACME hook up."

Poke whistles. "Man, how the fuck did your retard ass swing this shit?"

"I had to suck LT's dick. Made me cradle to balls and swallow the gravy."

The muscles in Brad's throat constrict.

"Like mother like son," Poke snaps, spits out the butt of his cigarette and pops open the hood. "But shit, dog. You musttah been _real_ good."

"Can you get this plastic fuckin' excuse for a Tonka truck working, Poke?" Brad barks. Poke straightens out, nods once.

"Yes, sir."

"Then cut the chatter and get it done."

The hammering continues and Ray curses while Poke removes the engine and Brad nearly snaps his laptop in half thinking about Ray's mouth on Nate's cock.

\--

They train for the bridge operation for six weeks.

Team leaders swap their men back and forth like they're playing Go Fish. The teams are solid, but every man has a different strength that doesn't match up with someone else. Brad's adamant he keeps Ray, but has a revolving door with everyone else. 

When the shit finally settles, Brad ends up with Trombley and Garza and one seat empty when they find Jorgenson running around naked in the middle of the night, pissing on himself and crying like a freshly spanked toddler. 

Jorgenson 's relieved of his duty and shipped back home on the next plane out. It's all for the best, Brad figures, but then Nate comes up to him after their first real training exercise and tells him there's going to be an embedded liberal dipshit reporter that's getting stuck with their platoon and that he'll be riding in Jorgenson's place.

Brad almost laughs. Here they are, the finest goddamn elite unit in all of the United States military, and they get stuck with a bullshit mission in tin can Humvees, and now he has to deal with a reporter in a seat that should have a trained US recon Marine.

"Sir—"

"I know, Brad. I wasn't thrilled either." Nate's lips are pulled tight, disapproving. "But this is an order straight from Godfather, and you're the only one I trust enough to keep this civilian alive."

Brad spits, closes his eyes.

He must be going soft already, because there's no feasible way he would ever agree to this under normal circumstances, but Nate asked him and he's quickly discovering that that's all it takes.

\--

Rolling Stone's not a complete fuckup.

He's not exactly golden either, but the men like him well enough and he wrote Beaver Hunt which pretty much makes him a rockstar. 

He spends most of the first day taking down names and ranks, asks how long they've been active, if they have wives or kids waiting for them back home. He writes down everything Ray says, which makes him talk more, and Brad tells them to shut the fuck up in a tone that has Ray's jaw snap shut and Rolling Stone's pen stop scratching.

\--

Nate tells them they're deploying the next day, right in the middle of a company wide pizza day.

Brad pushes his box to the side, gets up and starts to make a list of all the shit they're going to need. Nothing he order's come in yet and the Humvee's still not working to full capacity. He tries to figure out how the hell he's supposed to maintain a four week night recon with a pack of triple A's Rolling Stone tossed at him with the Wal-Mart sticker still on the back. 

Go figure; the commie hypocrites at Wal-Mart, inadvertently powering today's military. 

Nate walks by and Brad tells him they should get sponsored, little yellow smiley faces stitched onto their uniforms. They'd be the best-supplied military in the whole world, rolling back prices while knocking down civilizations.

Nate laughs, tipped his head back and opens his mouth.

He's got cocksucker lips. 

Brad always noticed.

\--

Shit hits the fan even before they step off.

Ray burns off half his face, their MOPP suits might as well be flashing neon signs, they still don't have the batteries and supplies they need to last half a week, and they only have one translator for the whole battalion. 

Then their escort gets 86'd and Encino Man in all his retard glory doesn't utter a goddamn word about it. Nate's so pissed that even Captain America's paranoid bitch ramblings are beginning to make sense. 

"Personal feelings," he reminds Nate, hears the click in Nate's jaw.

\--

Encino Man fucks them.

He fucks them with his ineptitude and a roll of duct tape, has them missing the checkpoint and separated from the rest of their unit. They unfuck Encino Man's incompetence, but Brad's so irritated he comes close to crushing his NVGs in his fist. Rolling Stone's been scribbling away for the last fifteen klicks and Trombley's snoring from the backseat. 

Captain America keeps up his insane ranting and his voice grates Brad's nerves raw. "Will somebody please shut him the fuck up?"

"I think Kochner's gonna slit his throat, VC style." Ray laughs.

Brad smirks. "We'd be so lucky."

\--

The trucks come barreling down at them, armed Hajis with AKs in hand. Nate's on the hook, his requests shot down one after the other with a steady rhythm that only comes from a person completely at ease with their own stupidity.

Nate's requests become more and more frustrated, until Brad can see the thin veneer of his patience crack open like a glass egg. Encino Man makes them wave the Haji's off and Nate growls low in the back of his throat. 

When they come across the refugees and find out the Haji's were Fedayeen loyalists that could have been taken out with clipped shots from every Marine in Bravo Company, Godfather orders them oscar mike and they end up breaking the Geneva Accord when they un-surrender the refugees and send them back to death squads.

Doc curses up a bloody storm, says shit that'd get him NJP'd and tried for treason had it been anyone other than Nate in command. Rudy and Pappy try to calm him down, and Brad knows that he's never gonna let this go.

But he can't be bothered with Doc, not when Nate looks like he was shot in the gut and is bleeding out slowly. His eyes are wide and shining. 

Brad feels his gut lurch; jealousy so hot and deep it rips through him like fire and makes him ache to put a bullet in the back of Wynn's head when he puts his hands all over Nate's back. 

When he puts his hand all over Brad's fucking property.


	2. two

They've been on the road ten hours when Ray starts to lose it.

"Ohhh _shit_!" He laughs at the top of his lungs. He slaps the steering wheel and his body jerks back. "You know what I just realized?"

"Your whisky tango mother's really your fucking sister?"

"No man. LT. His last name rhymes with 'fuck'."

Rolling Stone laughs from the backseat, chatty as all hell. "Ray, 'fick' and 'fuck' don't rhyme."

"Ya, cocksmoker," Trombley adds.

"Christ, you dickholes," Ray spits. "F-I-C-K," he spells it out like he's gonna get a gold star. "F-U-C-K. Sound alike, what-the-fuck-ever. I wonder if he uses it to pick up pussy."

"My name's Fick and I like to fuck?" Rolling Stone's on a roll today. 

"Nah nah," Trombley leans in, grunts like a caveman. "Me Fick, we fuck."

They all laugh, but now Brad's got the image of Nate between some slut's legs, mouth and chin shiny and dripping from her cunt. Nate'd go slow, lick her till she wept. 

The image is paralyzing, makes Brad's vision blotch white. He knows himself well enough to know this isn't some dormant faggotry waking up, but a cold, solid need to screw something beautiful and available. 

Seeing as how Nate fits both of the two criteria, Brad has no problems picturing his CO bent over the side of the Humvee, his cock buried right to the hilt in Nate's ass.

\--

They're stuck in an honest to god, Haji traffic jam, sheep and goats scraping by the side of the victor as kids with bare feet run past them. At this point, he could crawl faster than they're driving.

When the word comes in that the bridge mission gets fragged before their eyes, Brad's sure they're getting shipped back to Matilda for another bullshit training session that'll fall apart three days into deployment.

They explain what's happening to Rolling Stone, and Brad laughs when he points out the obvious.

"Then what was the point of you training for six weeks?"

Ray launches into another rant about retardation and the inbreeding in their chain of command, and Brad lets him go for the time being.

Later on, he hears Nate almost lose his shit with Godfather, demanding to know why they'd been pulled off; why they'd lost the one thing they bled for, for forty-three days. 

Nate's dismissed without a real explanation and storms past Brad, tension and anger bubbling under the surface. Even though Nate tries to hide them, Brad gets a good long hard look in his eyes, sees the aggravation and the desperation spill out in waves.

\--

They set up camp for the night in a field that's seventy percent concrete under an inch and a half of dirt.

Wynn puts them on twenty-five percent watch, and Brad orders everyone into their graves for some sleep. He's pushing thirty-nine hours himself, but couldn't sleep even if Godfather himself marched over and shot him full of Valium and ordered him to slip into a coma. He's wired like he just downed a bottle of ripped fuel and Redbull, can't stop bouncing his knee.

Ray snaps at him, tells him he's caving in his grave every time his monster foot pounds the sand. Brad reminds him he dug his grave a foot away from his and to stop being a lily pansy fuck.

He stops anyway, no use pissing off his RTO when he needs him alert and ready for Nasariyah. 

He ends up in the Humvee and fucks around with his laptop and his watch and tries to memorize the map he's sure's gonna be useless in a few days, but all of that comes crashing to a sudden halt when he see it.

\--

Brad's got perfect vision. Ray says he should have been called Superman, x-ray vision and heat vision and all that shit. Brad calls Superman a pansy commie faggot. He's no illegal immigrant, drawn by dipshit hippie Canadians.

"Batman's where it's at." He smiles around his dip, spits through his teeth. "Batman would have been a Marine. He's no dicksucker like Superman who would've joined the Air Force like a fucking woman."

"God _damn_ would I have fucked the pussy off of Wonder Woman." Ray slaps the steering wheel. "Fucking princess locked up on an island with a hundred other chicks? You know she'd be gagging for some cock."

"I always wanted to fuck Power Girl," Trombley chimes in. "I'd motorboat her till my head snapped off. Then I'd tittyfuck her silly."

"You are one sick zombie motherfucker, Trombley." Ray says, and they all laughed until Wynn told them to keep their bullshit chatter off company wide comms.

But now Brad's rethinking his stance on his Superman vision, because he's in the middle of an Iraqi desert in the dead of night, and he doesn't have the batteries for the night vision, but he can see Nate as clearly as if he were standing in sunlight at three in the afternoon. 

He's on the edge of their perimeter, one hand on a dilapidating Haji fence, the other hand wrapped around his cock, back hunched like he's jacking off with sandpaper and crazy-glue for lube. For a second, Brad averts his eyes, but _Christ_ if Nate doesn't have the prettiest dick Brad's ever seen, curved and swollen and thick. 

Nate's dick is so beautiful that Brad's cock wants to make an introduction, swells so hard it's like the hottest piece of trim he'd ever seen just walked by, flashing her pussy with his name tattooed on it.

Brad knows he should wipe this from his memory and square it away like a good Marine, but instead, he finds himself walking toward his commanding office mid-tug, and all he wants to do is spit on his palm and jerk Nate off till he's screamed himself hoarse.

\--

Nate's back tenses when Brad's close enough to smell the sex and sweat in the air. His jacket's unbuttoned, his MOPP suspenders dangling past his thighs, direct violations of Godfather's grooming standard.

He doesn't turn around. Brad can practically taste the heat on his cheeks.

"Sergeant." Nate's voice is wrecked. Brad wonders what he'll sound like after his cock's been down his throat, after he's fucked Nate's mouth stupid. 

"Lieutenant." Brad can't stop his smile. "Please, don't stop on my account."

Nate stumbles. A first class, recon Marine Lieutenant with a million and a half dollars worth of government paid survival training, stumbles forward like a cripple on stilts after Brad pulls out some PG-13 dirty talk. 

But still, Nate flushes this dark maroon that Brad can see up close. It's the sweetest thing he's seen in a month. It also makes him so hot his dick slaps against his belly, an angry reminder that he's been hard as a nail ever since he caught sight of Nate and his pretty cock. 

"You mind?" Brad tugs at the snaps of his flak jacket, pushes down his pants. Nate's eyes go comically wide, lips a perfect 'o' shape that gives Brad all sorts of bad ideas about pushing his superior to the ground and fucking his mouth till it glistens with his come.

Brad knows he's breaking about seven different S.O.Ps, but when he pulls his cock out of his pants and strokes it once with a tight fist, he's looking Nate right in the eye.

Nate's gaze drops for a second, slams back on Brad's face so fast he must've given himself whiplash. Brad groans, bites the inside of his cheek. He can't even feel his hand around his dick, just Nate's sad green eyes staring at him, feels the weight. 

Then Nate goes and picks up his own dick, starts jerking himself off again, nice and slow, mimics Brad's speed, braces himself against the Haji fence. Brad looks down, wants to see the head of Nate's cock disappear between his fist, wants to see what kind of grip his CO uses around his shaft.

When Nate comes, his eyes slip shut and he lets out this little sound that has the hair on Brad's body jump to attention. He watches as Nate shakes off most of the come on his hand, wipes the rest on the hard wood of the fence. 

Brad's already tucked himself back in, still hard enough to drill for diamonds, but he knows his own orgasm would only be a poor substitute for the one he really wants, and if being in the Marines has taught him anything, it's patience.

\--

Alpha's deep in the shit and taking hits from all sides. Instead of supporting, Godfather has them tasked with picking up the pieces of the Marines that get blown off their bodies.

Brad's restless and infuriated and watches as Alpha's men stumble around, shock freezing their limbs, stinking of sweat and piss. Nate's nerves are even thinner. Brad watches him, crouched low into the dirt, waving Doc in to try and keep fallen Marines alive as long as possible.

They're tied down for eight hours; right up until Alpha pulls out the big guns and tears through the hostiles, takes them down with a speed that fills Brad with pride. Captain Patterson's a fucking _fine_ Marine. His troops know that every time they hear Encino Man's illiterate-as-shit mutterings. 

Nate stands beside him. 

It's not enough, but for now, Brad'll take it.


	3. three

Bravo Company's on point to take down a city that's not on any conceivable map the Corps has. Brad trades Gabe for Walt Hasser and has to listen to Poke go on about bad omens.

"City's not on a map, dog. It's fuckin' invisible—don't exist to anyone in the world."

Brad'd tell him to shut up, but Nate's back at the same post as the night before, M-4 leaning against his leg, looking up at the sky. 

Brad's dick perks, phantom memories of Nate's face when he came, the sounds he made that hit Brad low in the gut. Both of Nate's hands are pressed against the fence, firm and still like a challenge, like Nate's dropping a gauntlet that Brad picked up way back at Matilda.

Brad's only a little disappointed Nate's not fucking his hand, but he's optimistic for the first time since the war began.

\--

Nate bristles when he nears.

Brad shouldn't be having as much fun as he is, but he's so many steps ahead of Nate at this point, he can already see the end game, and it's pretty hard not be a cocky son of a bitch when he already knows Nate's gonna bend over and take his cock like a fucking pro. 

"Lieutenant." 

Nate straightens up. His eyes are red rimmed and tired. Brad wants to see his dick again. 

"Brad, about—"

Brad cuts him off. "Not now, sir." 

He's already thumbing off the snaps to his jacket and steps into Nate's personal space. He's about three feet away from Nate when he pulls out his cock, spits on his hand like the dirty handjobs he got back in high school. Nate's eyes flash wide again, and Brad's so turned on he's already leaking from the tip. This time, Nate stares at his cock wholeheartedly. 

Brad watches Nate watch his cock. Watches as Nate follows his hand and breathes like he's drowning. It's all Brad can do to keep his eyes open, take in everything around him, but when his thighs tremble and his stomach zips with tension, his eyes slip shut and he groans, long and soft.

When Brad comes, his chin bumps against the top of Nate's head and no man with a military issue buzz should have hair that soft. They're close enough right now that Brad can see a little scar on the top of Nate's head, the length of a thumbnail, can smell the perspiration dotting his hairline. 

Nate pants against Brad's neck, stares at Brad's sticky fingers like he's gone all PTSD on Brad's ass, but one of his hands is clutching at the fence and the other's so close Brad knows it wants to touch.

"Brad." Nate's voice is splintered and raw. He stares up with panic in his eyes and looks so young that Brad's momentarily scared he's pulled a Pee-Wee Herman. But the moment passes and Brad cups the side of Nate's face—tempts fate—and swipes a thumb over Nate's bottom lip.

"You need this, sir." His voice is steady but he's completely distracted with the feeling of Nate's mouth beneath the pad of his finger.

\--

They get lit up in territory Alpha Company's already rolled through.

Walt almost gets himself decapitated on low-slung wires and Ray breaks protocol when he slows down and gives Walt a chance to keep his life. 

Brad's never been prouder of him.

They get out with no casualties, but the Humvees are pretty badly banged up. Rolling Stone's giving himself carpel tunnel trying to write down everything as fast as he can, Trombley's finally stopped complaining about not getting any, and Ray's quiet as all hell, waiting for Brad to rip him a new asshole for slowing down. 

Sure, they lose the LAVs and they're now rolling on their own in victors that'd fall apart if a Haji were to sneeze on it, but for the very first time since they left Matilda, Hitman 2-1 is silent, and Brad basks in the quiet.

\--

They're in a different city, same desert. The sun's heat is raping them. Rolling Stone's passed out in the back and Trombley's stuck on bitch duty, fanning his hippie ass.

Ray's been ranting about colors and perceptions for the last three klicks like he's Da Vinci, and his voice is so scratchy that if he doesn't shut up soon, Brad's gonna put three bullets in his throat. 

Brad mostly forgives him, because Ray hasn't slept in close to three days and his entire stomach content is ripped fuel and the freeze-dried coffee grinds Brad saw him chewing like bubblegum. 

Brad feels great. 

He's got a total of eight collected hours of rest in the past nine days and he hasn't had anything but Pop-Tarts and dirt water, but he had his thumb in Nate's mouth last night, Nate's tongue licking at the pad of his finger while they both jerked off so close their knuckles bumped.

\--

For the first time in a week, they're given an honest to god, recon mission. Brad's skin buzzes like he just came, post-orgasmic induced bliss. He's on point for what's probably going to be the only decent recon mission in this war, and his body aches to use the skill-set the United States Marine Corps hammered into him.

But then Encino Man goes off map and instead of being the first boots on the ground, they're in the middle of a Haji field with the rest of the battalion twenty klicks away. Nate's at his window even before Ray's killed the engine. He's got this warning look in his eyes Brad's come to learn means _brace yourself_.

They hear it over the comms a second later. _Colbert's team took a wrong turn at the bridge_. 

There's complete silence from every victor. Brad stares at Nate like he's Scooby-Doo badguy—one tug and the mask comes off to reveal that asshole from _Candid Camera_ who tells them this entire war's been a joke at their expense.

Then Ray laughs, eyes bulging, tips his head back and punches the steering wheel while he cackles. "Fuck you, you apeshit, dick for brains, motherfucking excuse for a fucking—"

" _Ray_." Brad honestly wants to police him, but at this point, he's so fed up with the incompetence in the battalion that he's about to swap sides and lead the Haji's to a complete and sweeping victory over the inbred pieces of shit that are commanding them.

He pushes open the door and takes a minute to pull himself together. His skin feels too tight all of a sudden, like he got the bitch end of the MOPP suit handout. The sand and dirt crunch beside him. He feels Nate against his side, looks up at the blinding sun and takes a breath. 

"Sir?"

"We know where we are. We're oscar mike in ten."

Brad makes the mistake of looking down. Nate's expression drains the fight from him. He sees the toll Encino Man's dumbfuck commands take on him, sees Nate's sad, green eyes staring up at him, begging him for help that Brad can't give. 

Brad keeps looking at Nate well past a time that'd be considered proper. He feels like it's his penance for being blamed for a screwup he'd been vocally opposed to from the beginning. His CO really is too pretty to be a Marine. His eyes are too open, mouth too wide, lips too damn full. 

Brad keeps staring at Nate's mouth. Nate notices, swipes his tongue unconsciously, makes his lips shiny and red, and one day, Brad's gonna treat himself to that mouth, hold it open with strong fingers and make Nate take every inch of his cock.

\--

Nate finds him that night.

Brad's impressed for all of a minute. He went out far, a little further than safety dictates, made sure his tracks were well covered. Brad often has to remind himself that Nate went through the same training he did, that he's a Corps trained killer, not just a pretty face sent to Iraq for Brad's personal jerkoff fantasies. 

Nate stands beside him, doesn't say a word.

It'd be a welcome change if it were any other moment; not when Brad's still so furious he came damn near close to putting his fist through Ray's teeth just hours before. Nate's there, silent and constant, a solid body near his. Brad's grateful. Even this close to Nate, he doesn't think he can muster up a hardon, let alone a conversation. 

He spoke too soon.

"I'm sorry for what happened earlier." Nate's eyes are clear in the moonlight. His jaw is set tight and his back is razor straight. He came prepared for a fight; came prepared to punch some discipline into Brad's bones. 

"Think _nothing_ of it, sir." The words feel dangerous in his mouth, click like a bullet in a chamber. 

" _Sergeant_." Nate's tone slices into Brad's skin, makes his fingers twitch for his KA-BAR.

"Yes, _Lieutenant_?" Brad's contempt flows like an open wound.

Nate steps back. Brad steps forward. Nate bristles. Brad can feel his anger shoot out like warning spikes. Brad's skin vibrates, pulls tight. His adrenaline kicks up, his wits precision sharp. He's been aching for this, aching for one good fight.

They move at the same time. 

Nate's shorter, faster, ducks under his reach and has his arm locked like the Corps trained them. Brad's so fucking hard his body barely registers the pain in his elbow. But Nate's upperhand lasts less than five seconds. Brad's double jointed and his legs are longer. Nate's on his back with Brad's knee in his gut, both his arms pinned above his head.

Nate bucks, his legs hooking under Brad's. If he were twenty pounds heavier, he'd be able to flip Brad over with ease. He's not, so Brad presses him into the sand and dirt, presses them close enough their chests rub against each other. 

He can feel Nate's dick, half hard in his pants. It drives him crazy, makes his skin itch and burn and tingle like he'd been mustard gassed. When Nate muffles a tiny whimper, Brad's gone; one hundred percent, totally and completely fucking _gone_. 

It's a desperate scramble, their fingers thick and clumsy as they wrestle with straps and clasps. Brad's so turned on that the tremble in Nate's hands is enough to get him leaking. It's close to a miracle that Brad manages to get his jacket off and dick out, and just watching Nate reach into his pants sets him off down a bad way.

It's mostly impulse and more than a fair part desire that has Brad yanking Nate's hand free, has him pinning both his arms back with one of his hands secured like an iron vice around Nate's wrists. 

"Jesusfuck, Brad," Nate groans, squirms. He doesn't sound angry, not really. Especially not when Brad leans down, slides his dick right against Nate's, watches as Nate's eyes roll back, his spine curve.

Brad doesn't stop, keeps snapping his hips against Nate, works himself up so bad that he doesn't even think when he grabs his dick and starts stroking. Nate whines, shimmies his hips as much as he can. He's asking for something he'd never be able to verbally admit to, and Brad's just fine with that.

The sounds Nate makes when Brad rubs the tip of his dick along his shaft'll have Brad jerking off merrily for the rest of his life. Brad's suddenly struck with how badly he wants to make Nate beg for it, how much he could get his CO to promise him before Brad gets him off. 

Another time, Brad decides. Right now, all his focus is on wrapping his fingers around both their cocks, on rubbing just the right way, on making Nate lose that Ivy League vocabulary and make him slur and cuss like a degenerate sailor. 

Nate doesn't disappoint. 

He feels fucking fantastic in Brad's hand, hot and thick and weeping from the tip. Brad bites the inside of his cheek bloody trying not to come. His cock feels so damn good against Nate's, feels damn near perfect in the tight circle of his fist. The ridge of their dicks keep rubbing in all the right ways, makes Brad damn near insane.

If they only had some lube. Christ, Brad has no idea if he'd be able to contain himself if he had Nate's cock and a bottle of slick between them. He'd have Nate spread open on his fingers faster than he could assemble a rifle, have his cock so far inside of Nate he'd be gagging on him.

The image sends him off, has him coming all over his hand, slicking the way, makes Nate buck up and moan in this soft voice that Brad wants to sink his teeth into. 

Brad just manages to roll onto his side instead of collapsing on Nate and starting this whole scenario again. He manages a ragged breath, feels the need stir in him all over again.

"Fuck," Nate hisses, rubs his eyes with the palms of his hand. He sounds defeated, resigned. He tilts his head up to the night sky and licks his lips. "Why do we keep doing this?"

Brad chuckles, smiles. "We're making do, sir."

Nate laughs. It sounds nice, honest. "Hoorah."

Brad pushes himself off the ground, cracks both his knees on the way up. Nate's up a moment after him. They part ways, both off to their respective Humvees. 

"Jesus, you look fucking thrilled with yourself," Ray comments. "What'd you do, piss in Encino Man's MRE's?"

Brad smiles.


	4. four

They're given two days to repair all major damage done to the Humvees. They didn't have the proper tools and parts necessary when they were at Matilda, so Brad has no idea why Command thinks they'll be able to make due in the middle of a goddamn desert. 

Walt curses up a storm, punches the base of the M19 until it rattles. "Useless piece of shit keeps jammin' on me!"

Casey Kasem's less helpful than a bag of dicks, and the lube they have might as well be water for all its usefulness. If Brad weren't baking under the sun and still thinking about fucking Nate silly, he'd laugh at the irony of the general lack of lubricant circulating in the troop.

They need LSA for the Mark-19 if they want Walt to get off more than ten rounds, before they get fucked up. Sand keeps clotting in the gun shaft and it's making the bullets stick. It's going to backfire and Walt's going to lose his hands if they don't square this shit up soon.

When Nate makes his way to their victor, Brad has a hard time keeping his focus. He's still got the smell of Nate on his hand and the mental replays of how Nate sounded and looked kept Brad up the whole night, dick stroked raw from the combat jacks that did little to stem the ache.

Nate, on the other hand, looks daisy fresh, like he doesn't have bruises the shape of Brad's fingers on the insides of his wrists. By all rights, it should infuriate Brad on an extremely petty level. Instead, Brad's turned on all over again. 

Fucking Nate Fick. Brad's always known command would get him killed one of these days. He'd never thought it'd be over a pair of green eyes and a mouth that gets him harder than any skinmag ever could. 

Brad's revenge is petty and high school in every possible way. He drops his voice, asks for the LSA, tosses in a line about KY that had Nate's eyes widen. He doesn't blush, but the shy dip to his head has Brad smirk.

\--

Word through the comms has them oscar mike in three mikes. Brad piles into the Humvee, feels enclosed from all sides. Rolling Stone's just started using military lingo, sneaks it into speech like he's acting all covert as shit, like someone might start confusing him for a real Marine.

Ray's jittery and bouncing like a retarded ping-pong ball, and only Walt's threats seem to have any effect on him. 

Then Nate pops up beside his window, shit eating grin splitting his face in two. He looks good. Really, really fucking good. Brad's dick perks right on up, his fingers clench. 

"Scammed some off the guys from RCT-1." The LSA feels like a brick in his hand, feels like a promise for something that neither expected, but both agreed on. 

Nate's smile leaves little to the imagination. 

Brad knows it's his turn to deliver.

\--

They pull up to a civilian hamlet twenty clicks from any form of civilization.

Nate's team does the recon while everyone else piles out the MREs, takes some down time. Brad sees 2-3 cleaning their weapons with somber faces, sees Pappy and Rudy bickering like an old married couple, sees Poke and Rolling Stone getting along like girls at a sleepover.

Trombley's hanging back with Charlie Company and Ray and Walt are with Gabe, spreading the LSA as thin as they can. Brad can't see Nate, but Wynn's still by his victor, which means Nate can't be far behind. 

It's peaceful, really and truly. Brad leans back, closes his eyes. 

Which is naturally the second the bombs start to drop.

\--

RCT-1 blows their load prematurely and lights up the hamlet like a Bob Marley concert. They're not on any comms Bravo has, and no amount of yelling seems to do any good. Even Encino Man and his unnaturally idiocy gets caught up in the explosions. It's not like Brad needed further proof that their Company Commander was a fucking moron, but now all the cards are laid out in front of him and he can't ignore it any longer.

Nate's face is pinched and pained when they gather by Brad's Humvee. Doc's foul mouthing Encino Man to hell and Poke and Pappy are nodding along, chiming in. Nate's eyes keep going softer, darker. He deals with Encino Man more than any of them, and Brad's suddenly overwhelmed with sympathy, like he wants to tag Nate out and take his place in the shitstorm for a little while.

They're oscar mike, so everyone piles back into their victors, but Nate hangs back, looks up at Brad like's he's finally lost in this bullshit war and needs a life raft more than the good fuck Brad wants to give him.

\--

They're barely ten mikes from the smoldering heap that was once a family household when Hitman 3 falls behind. 

Christenson glasses some Hajis and Wynn gives him the go ahead to fuck their shit up. It takes all of a minute, but they suppress an RPG team and try for the next thirty minutes to call it in to command. Brad hears the weariness in Nate's voice, how it cracks a little from exhaustion. 

"Fuck, this is like some fucked up sort of drinking game," Ray says. "Take a shot every time LT calls in. Take two shots if you think Encino Man's confusing his comm with a button."

"Double-downing shots isn't really a drinking game, Ray." Rolling Stone laughs, always so damn helpful.

But he has a point. He's barely been with their platoon a week and he already has shit figured out like he was grunting along with them in PRC. 

Ray's in the middle of one of his stories from high school, about double-downing drinks and some band groupie who showed him her tits when their comms spark to life and they're ordered to halt. 

When Nate comes running toward him, there's confusion and anger in his eyes, a disillusionment that's finally set in. Brad does his best to relay what little information he's been given and he actually sees Nate's confidence in their mission die. 

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

\--

Brad's been in the military a decade and some spare change. He's seen his fair share of shitstorms and blow out, blow ups and general fuckery that've gotten men killed, wounded, or even worse, promoted through some bullshit hierarchy of ego stroking, ass kissing and backwood cock handling.

It's the only logistical explanation as to how Captain America still has his goddamn position within the Marines. Eric's eyes keep looking more and more like Nate's as the days pile on; the weariness of holding too many pieces in one hand, trying to keep everything from crumbling apart. 

But for the moment, there's a bigger problem at hand. There's word on the comms that Nate's been taken out by an RPG team, that Gunny Wynn's a goner. Nate's almost as amused as he is confused, proof positive that this war is nothing but a cosmic knock-knock joke with an equally shitty punchline.

"This is the type of Vietnam shit that gets a whole company wiped out!"

It's when Captain America finally starts making sense, Brad figures he's finally lost his sanity.

\--

Rolling Stone's telling them this story about how he got to interview Ozzy Osbourne when he launched a reality show about his family. He says he got to sit in Ozzy's family room while the Prince of Darkness served him tea with whisky. 

He's saying that he got to play Ozzy's guitar and touched all his gold and platinum's and that for an hour, he got Ozzy talking about all the backstage pussy he fucked on tour. Girls in the 70s were fucking outrageous. Says that he and Iggy Pop DP'd this groupie who made them both come on her face.

"He says she licked it right the fuck up. Just lapped at it."

"God that is so fucking disgusting, but I'm totally fucking hard. Is that weird? It's weird, isn't it? Right, Brad? It's weird, right? Weird that that's hot?"

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Ray."

"Ya, that's hot. It's fucking _dirty_ hot. I gotta become a fucking rockstar. You get away with the most fucked up shit when you're a fucking rock god."

Lilley takes that moment to sprint up to them, flushed and panting. His eyes are bewildered and sharp, angry. "Did you just fucking hear? LT stopped Encino Man from calling in a Danger Close. Word is he's just made himself suspect with battalion. Scuttlebutt says Godfather's gonna relieve him of command."

"You're fucking shitting us." Ray's indignation makes Brad laugh. 

"What's a Dancer Close?" Rolling Stone's notepad is out, pen pressed against the page.

Brad's still laughing.

You don't need to be a rockstar to get away with shit. Just in the United States Marine Corps.

\--

That night, Brad finds Nate. It's only fitting. Their little hide and seek games are becoming more and more correlated with the amount of shit that rolls down their way via Command's utter and apparent uselessness. 

"Sir?"

Nate doesn't turn around. Doesn't flinch or twitch or acknowledge Brad's presence in any way. Brad doesn't mind. He just steps in closer, presses his arm against Nate's. He sees Nate's lips quirk into a smile, makes him smile in return.

Nate sighs, dip his head and hunches forward. "Am I being naïve when I say that this actually shocks me?"

"Unfortunately, sir."

Nate huffs a laugh. "Figures. Only idealists join the military thinking they can make the world a better place. Or at least unfuck command's orders long enough to not have seventy men wiped out in a fucking blue on blue artie drop."

"Hoorah, sir. Hoorah."

Nate laughs, empty and angry. 

Brad licks his lips. Nate's neck is fully exposed, a long, thick column of pale skin just begging for Brad's teeth to mark it up. Brad's so close he can see the freckles there, almost masked by the pale sunburn that all seem to have nowadays.

"Christ," Nate swears, sigh mangled with frustration. "Is this how you felt when Craig fucked you over?"

"As I recall, sir. Someone was there to _alleviate_ the stress."

Nate tenses a little, back straighter, eyes downcast, pulse speeding. Brad feels hunger sprawl in his stomach in insistent waves. Nate clears his throat, licks his lips in a nervous swipe. It still isn't right for a man to have a mouth like his; the gleam from the spit and moonlight only makes it painfully clear how pretty Nate's lips are, how stupidly fantastic they would feel mouthing the head of Brad's cock.

Brad tries his best to keep his thoughts from going down that road. Nate manages to effectively halt Brad's brain from even processing as he hesitantly leans back, rests his back across Brad's chest. It's a surrender. A free pass. Brad feels giddy, like he gets to unwrap a present, gets to untie the ribbons and peel back the paper and touch something that was specifically chosen for him.

Nate feels a lot like that in his hands. He doesn't say anything as Brad slides his hands across his flak jacket, only inhales with a slight stutter when Brad works away the clasps, gets under the green tee and touches Nate's belly. It's smooth and firm, slender grooves of muscle, tight and athletic. Brad stretches out his fingers as wide as he can, pulls Nate tighter against his chest. His hand almost spans the entire width of Nate's stomach, makes Brad all too keenly aware of how much bigger he is. 

Nate sucks in a shaky breath, squeezes his eyes shut as he arches against Brad's body. They're flat against each other now, one of Brad's legs between Nate's, Nate's head tucked under Brad's chin. His hair is still maddeningly soft, almost ticklish. 

Brad slides his fingers lower, down past Nate's bellybutton, thumbnail scratching the fine trail of hair that leads to his cock. 

Nate whimpers. It's all the invitation Brad needs, and more. 

The contact sends a shockwave up Brad's arm. There's a fleeting thought that zips through his brain, one that point blank asks " _what the fuck are you doing_?", but Nate lets slip this soft grunt, this pained sigh that had Brad tighten his fist, has his thumb circle the head of Nate's cock and stroke.

Brad formally recognizes that there's absolutely no going back from this, no way to talk himself around what he's doing, no rationale or justification other than he, Brad Colbert, is willingly and happily giving his commanding officer a handjob, and getting off to the sounds he's making. 

Nate's head tilts up, his thighs tense. Brad wraps his free hand around his chin, thumb lazily swiping the plush fullness of Nate's bottom lip as he twists around Nate's crown, drags his fist down hard and rough. It's a dry jack, Nate's leaking tip providing the glide. 

He squeezes at the base a little, smiles when Nate's tense against him, squirms with these soft grunts that guide Brad's hand; tighter pressure has Nate whining, a gentle scrape of nails makes him shake. It's when he starts panting Brad's name, starts groaning and pushing back into him that Brad feels the coils of his own need finally break through to the surface like a bruise, raw and sore and insistent.

He crushes his mouth to the soft shell of Nate's ear, hisses, repeats to get his point across. "You'll pull through this. But we need you, sir. You leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in. The _only_ thing." 

Nate comes with a sharp hiss, body going rigid against Brad's, Nate's orgasm pulling him up a few inches, pulls him onto his tip toes, tight as a bow. Brad's suddenly mouth level with Nate's neck. His mouth waters.

When Nate sags, Brad gives him one final tug, reluctantly extracts his hand. Nate's breathing through his mouth, these deep, breathless sounds. Brad crushes the heel of his palm against his dick, counts to five then ten then fifteen. 

"Brad," Nate's eyes are all green, shinning. He's staring at Brad's crotch, at the outline of his dick that's ironically, not camouflaged at all. Nate's brow knit close, lips tight. His knees sag, body falling with the motion. 

Brad grabs him, pulls up swiftly. "Oh no, Sir," his voice is level, his dick screaming. "Not that. Once you give me this," his thumb drags against Nate's bottom lip, "it's mine."

Nate swallows, nods. He reaches instead, and Brad grabs his wrist. Squeezes just a little.

"I'll get mine, sir." The words drip lewdly, freely. "It's not going to be right now, but the moment I ascertain the location of some slick, I'm going to fucking _defile_ you."

Brad's not sure if he expected Nate to protest or fight it, but there's no angry denial, no feeble attempts at reasserting masculinity like he didn't just have Brad's hand wrapped around his cock. Nate closes his eyes, inhales once. 

"Understood, Sergeant."

There's almost no way that should have made Brad harder than he already was, but Brad's always been about pushing his boundaries, challenging himself further than he's physically able to go.

By all rights, he should have his hands down his pants trying to stem the torturous ache in this cock, but the image of Nate bending over, ass opened and glistening for his cock, has him coming in his pants like a teenager.

\--

It's almost like some big, cosmic fucking joke that of all the men in the battalion, it's Fruity Rudy that has what he needs.

"Hey, brother." Rudy greets. He's rubbing something on his chest that smells like lilacs. "Anything on your mind?" 

He has a shaving kit open with more gels and moisturizers and ointments than the entire battalion combined. Brad takes a second to appreciate the irony of the situation he's in. No batteries, but Rudy's got exfoliating cream. 

"You got any lube on you?"

Rudy has the balls to look amused. 

"Gun lube or fun lube, brother?"

"Both if you can spare."

"All out of gun lube. But I'll hook the Iceman up." He shoves his hand in the kit, riffles around like it's Mary Poppin's goddamn bag and pulls out a fresh tube of Astroglide. For a second Brad thinks it might be a mirage, but then Rudy tosses it at him like an active grenade. 

"Rudy, if I knew it wouldn't turn you on so fucking much, I'd kiss you right now."

"And they call me the fag." 

Brad grins and pockets it. 

Astroglide, damn. It's not KY, but it'll open Nate up for him all the same.


End file.
